Lost in Melody
by Agent Midnight
Summary: 34, 43.. ficlet. Music. Ahh... it had to be these two. First TrowaQuatre-ish ficlet for a veeeery long time.


Warnings: 3+4, POV (it works as Trowa or Quatre, someone pointed out to me. I wrote it as Trowa).  
  
Gundam Wing is not mine.  
  
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=Lost in Melody=  
  
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A soft melody flowing from speakers is the first thing I hear as I walk down the hallway towards the living room. It's a quiet melody, but light and particularly upbeat. I'm sure if I flip through the countless amount of music in my head, I could come up with the name and composer of such a beautiful piece, but why bother? Bleeding over the soft strand of music, I can hear his quiet tone singing along with one of the parts as I get closer to the living room. He holds a G for just a moment, and I enter the room when he moves from that note to an F natural, matching the mallet instruments playing alternates of those two notes. The piece's name floods into my head as he sings along with the trumpets, and it's only confirmed when I look at the sheet music spread across the coffee table and see the bold lettering on the top of the page.  
  
He's sitting on the beige sofa, his legs tucked under his body as he leans forward to look at the clarinet piece... the flute's run... the beautiful oboe solo. He sings the tuba parts in a low, humorous tone of voice, his hands ghosting in the air to play along with the string bass. The tuba part is ditched as he sings the overpowering trombone part, his eyes never leaving the sheet music in front of him.  
  
The left hand playing the imaginary string bass falls away to conduct the next part, the right joining in a second later. He closes his eyes for a moment so he can figure out how to properly conduct the slow, mesmerizing 7/8 part, then he opens his eyes and goes back to watching the music. Through the speakers, the slow music matches his movements. I watch his lips as he counts silently to his imaginary orchestra. A three, a two, a two repeated a few times until he gets to the 8/8 part, then he changes the counting just barely by replacing a two with a three.  
  
His hands make a larger arch in the air and he silently says the measure number, then he brings a finger up to his lips and shushes the players to match the dynamics on the page. At 198, he conducts the drummers and the clarinet soloist in a wonderfully catchy 3/4 part, a light smile coming to his lips as the flutes throw themselves into the music by doing quick runs up and down the scale. He uses one hand to show the trombones when they come back in, and throws his attention to the person playing crash cymbals at the very end, cuing each and every crash that was needed. The piece ends abruptly after that and he holds his hands in the air for a second before signaling instruments down.  
  
The next piece starts.  
  
Chimes.  
  
Clarinets.  
  
He doesn't notice me when I finally step completely in the room and move over to the couch he's sitting on. He sways along with the music, the new song slow and lacking the lightness of the previous one. Sitting next to him, I peek down at the new piece he threw on the table just to see where he's at, and I turn my eyes back to watching him. He lowers his hands when the oboe player in this piece starts his solo and he lets the soloist go at his own tempo. He brings them back up near the end of the solo and cues the clarinets back in, then points off to the side to give attention to the bell player playing bravely over the soft music without missing a note.  
  
I toss my books on the couch across from us as he lowers his arms to give free reign to the new soloist starting, and I lean back into the cushions as he conducts through the french horn part. He remains transfixed in the music, probably not even realizing that I had thrown my books or that they had made a noise at all. His eyes have this glassy concentration to them that I've seen numerous times before, his lips set in a small pout as he flips the page of music to move on with the song. The trumpets blare beautifully near the end, and he nods his head as the timpani player adds his own touch to things.  
  
I can't really help but smile as he enthusiastically cues the percussionists to finish out the piece, ending it all with lowering his hands and reaching for the next stack of sheet music. Before he can even touch the folder holding the next piece in it, I grab his hand and bring to towards my lips, placing a small kiss on his smooth skin. For a second, I don't think he'll respond, then his eyes turn to lock with mine and he smiles like he does when a player hits a note perfectly or when the soloist overwhelms him with emotion.  
  
The next piece starts.  
  
Slow, beautiful piece.  
  
I kiss his hand again, and he tugs it out of my grip to lightly drag his fingers up my cheek and towards my hair. The trumpets are playing low but with so much emotion, hitting the high notes in the way it was intended to make this piece dramatic and sad. He weaves his long fingers into my hair and I smile as he leans into me and hums the next part of the song against the skin of my neck. I wrap my arms around him in a loose hug, resting my head on top of his as he listens to the song. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to see his imaginary orchestra. The trumpets sitting to the right of the room, the percussionists in the back. The flutes in the front, sitting next to the two-person oboe section. Clarinets... french horns in the middle. The string bass in the back by the timpani player and the tubas.  
  
And there he is, standing at the front of the room, conducting them as they play.  
  
He turns his eyes away from the players to look at me but the breath against my neck as he speaks is more convincing than the images in my mind.  
  
"You and music, Tro... that's all I need in my life."  
  
==End  
  
Note: This was originally going to be angst. Heee...! +Lucky+ 


End file.
